A View of the Bridge

A young man leaves a Manhattan Christmas Eve office party and spots a handsome older blind man standing in the heavy snow, waiting to cross a busy intersection. Escorting the man across to the other side, the young man is suddenly obsessed with him. Unable to think of a clever line, the young man follows him, hoping for another opportunity. Aboout to come to his senses, the young man watches as the blind man walks on. A truck slides into a car at the intersection where the blind man is waiting, causing him to fall. The young man runs to the rescue, opening the door to a bizarre, life changing weekend for both men.

Submitted:Aug 19, 2010
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A VIEW OF THE BRIDGE

A Short Story By

Gafakatwak

Manhattan, Christmas Eve,
1969

As I emerged from the 59th and
Lexington subway station, a single snow flake landed between my
eyes, suggesting that the city might be in for a white Christmas.
The ominous clouds above and the mounting darkness seemed to
confirm it. People around me rushed for public transportation or
frantically tried to hail cabs.

Having escaped from a dismally
boring office party in lower Manhattan, I stood at the curb,
gazing down Lexington Avenue, growing depressed as the snow
flakes increased. The thought of spending Christmas in my
roach-infested, west side hotel room was revolting. Hell, the
place didn't even have a television set. Then it occurred to me
that unless my luck drastically changed in the bars, I was about
to end up being alone for an entire four-day holiday. Up to that
point, my "scoring" quotient had been unimpressive. I was a
young, burly and handsome newcomer who went for older guys, most
of whom were terrified that I might be a cop or a hustler.

As I made the decision to hit every
bar on or near Lexington Avenue, I noticed a middle-aged blind
man walking toward me, tapping his cane back and forth. He was
dressed in a camel hair overcoat with a jaunty fur cap and had a
serene smile on his face. Apparently knowing exactly where the
crosswalk was, he stopped and turned, coming abreast of me. He
calmly stood on the curb, his head cocked to hear traffic sounds,
his cane gauging the distance to the asphalt.

The light changed, but a cab
recklessly turned onto 59th Street ahead of the crossing
pedestrians. When the blind man didn't attempt to cross, I
realized that he was probably confused. "Let me help you cross,"
I said, slipping my arm under his and leading him off the
curb.

"Thanks," he said, his voice deep
and resonant.

I looked up into the dark lenses of
his glasses and wondered if he was totally blind. Through the
fabric of his overcoat, I could feel an ethereal, erotic warmth.
"No problem," I said, acutely turned on by his body heat. I led
him across 59th Street and down to 58th.

I wanted to start a conversation
but couldn't. Yet, I had a strong feeling that he could sense my
attraction, that my voice would only confirm it. Highly aroused,
I stared squarely at him, admiring his skin texture, his stocky
build, that disarming smile. He vaguely smelled of Polo
after-shave with a dash of library, as if he'd spent a lot of
time around books.

After crossing 58th, he tapped the
curb with his cane then stepped up to the sidewalk. "This is my
block. Thanks." He gently pulled away from my grasp and continued
toward 57th Street.

Feeling stupid, I could only stand
there, wishing that I had insisted upon getting him to his
destination or had at least found out more about him. Cursing
myself, I pursued him, never considering that I was acting
compulsively.

I followed him into a drug store
near the corner of 57th, where he picked up a bag of medication
at the pharmacy. While pretending to browse the next aisle, I
could hear the pharmacist talking to him as if they were good
friends. I moved closer to better overhear their
conversation.

" . . . some kind of infection,"
the blind man was saying.

"Oh, that's too bad," said the
pharmacist. "He was a great-looking dog. Guess it wasn't so bad,
though, being as he wasn't with you that long."

"Oh, I got attached to him, all
right, but they insisted on taking him back. I get a black Lab
next week. His name is Midnight." That smile again. "Meanwhile,
it's solo."

"Hey, I'll get Tony to walk you to
the subway."

The blind man pushed the bag of
medication inside his coat pocket. "I'll be fine, Nick."

"Frank," I whispered to myself.
"What a plain name for someone who looks that incredible."

As the snow began to collect on the
sidewalk, I resumed my obsessive little game, following him west
on 57th and into a bookstore near Avenue of the Americas. Again,
I stayed close to him, eager to learn more.

He made his way to the rear of the
store, where he was warmly greeted by a young woman. She lifted a
shopping bag to the counter and placed a pen in his hand. The bag
was half full of books.

"You have all six?" Frank
asked.

"No, Mister Bloch, they
back-ordered the Kingsley Amis. They just brailled that one last
month," she explained. "Give me a call next week. Sign here." She
placed his hand atop a pad and watched him sign. "I'll put the
receipt inside the bag, okay?"

"Thanks." Frank groped for the bag
and turned to leave. "Jesus, they're heavy! I'm glad you didn't
have all of them." He waved and tapped his way toward the door
and out onto the increasingly treacherous sidewalk.

"Frank Bloch," I whispered. I
followed closely, wondering where he would lead me. I didn't
care, really. I wanted an adventureanything but a holiday weekend
in the horrible room I'd rented until I could find an affordable
apartment. I reviewed various means of starting a conversation
but couldn't think of anything that didn't sound inane. I
regarded the decreasing visibility and accumulating slush and
snow. Hey, it looks pretty slick. How about letting me carry that
bag for you? Or better: Looks like a blizzard. Let me help you.
What train do you take? Small world, so do I! Where do you live?
Small world, I live across the street! How about dinner? I
blurted out a chuckle and thought I saw him turn his head toward
me slightly.

It began to snow quite heavily; my
pulse quickened.

Crossing Seventh Avenue, he turned
north, coming to a sudden halt within half a block of 58th
Street. He turned around, a look of confusion on his face. He was
obviously lost. He stood near the curb and seemed to mentally
retrace his steps.

As I made the decision to come to
his aid, he swiftly turned again and continued his original
route. Agitated, he furiously tapped his cane from side to side
and turned his head back and forth to hear. The snow began to
come down harder; I walked faster.

Just as the cane was about to tap
the 58th Street curb, a skidding cab slammed into the rear of
another cab in the intersection. The blind man defensively held
up his hands, causing him to stumble off the curb, almost falling
under the wheels of a delivery truck making a right turn.

I was over him quickly. "You okay?"
I asked, helping him to his feet. I could see that his glasses
had been crushed and his right eyebrow was cut and bleeding
lightly.

"Yeah, I'm okay," he growled,
obviously embarrassed and angry. "Please hand me my cane and
books." He took a step and tripped over the curb to the
sidewalk.

"Would you please settle down and
let me help you?" I barked, reaching for his cane. I looked
around for his books but all I could see was the ripped bag
rushing toward a gutter.

"Jesus Christ!" Frank yelled,
holding his knee in pain.

I placed the cane in his palm.
"Here. Now hold on while I try to fish your books out."

As I attempted to locate his books
in the dark water, another truck sped around the corner,
showering me with slush. Feeling the cold wetness permeating my
coat, I gave up. "I'm sorry, the books went into the drain," I
lied.

"Sonofabitch!" he spat.

"Did you hurt your knee?" I asked,
inspecting his torn trousers, then glancing up into his eyes.
They were a stunning light blue and looked free of disease.
"Where do you live? I'll get you home."

"Just get me to the Columbus Circle
subway station. I live in Fort Lee." He struggled to get
up.

I helped him to his feet. "Where's
that?"

"New Jersey. You from Texas,
Oklahoma . . . Louisiana?"

Taking out a handkerchief, I dabbed
at his eyebrow. "Texas. Does it show that much? You cut your
eyebrow."

"Is it bleeding?"

"Not badly. Press this against it
for a couple of minutes."

He took the handkerchief I placed
in his hand.

My teeth began to chatter as the
cold wetness reached my bare skin. "So where is this subway
station?"

"Near Broadway and Fifty-ninth. I
thought that's where I was."

"Not quite." I led him toward
Eighth Avenue, feeling the same warmth from the contact as
before. It permeated my body, helping me to tolerate the icy
wetness on my back.

"You sure the books went into the
sewer?" he asked with a pained expression.

"I'm sure." I studied his beautiful
eyes. "Sorry. How much did they cost you?"

"They weren't mine." He limped
slightly and winced as he rubbed his knee. "I just picked them up
for the Lighthouse. I work there part-time."

"Oh." Okay, smart ass, think of
something. "Uhh . . . you'd better have your wife take care of
that cut as soon as you get home."

"I don't have a wife." He almost
slipped and yelped at the pain in his knee. "I'm divorced . . .
and she didn't divorce me after I went blind."

I chuckled. "I wasn't going to ask
that."

"Well, most people do." He turned
to me and smiled like he'd done back at Park Avenue.

I slowly turned and urged myself to
leave the station, eventually glancing up at a clerk inside the
change booth. Unable to fight the powerful urge, I purchased
tokens and followed the blind man to the platform.

Frank emerged from the subway at a
station near the George Washington Bridge and walked into an
adjacent bus terminal, where a woman led him to a waiting bus. I
quickly bought a ticket to Ft. Lee and boarded the bus just
seconds before it departed. Locating Frank in the mid-section of
the bus, I walked past him and sat near the rear.

I had no idea where Ft. Lee was, so
I was relieved when Frank pulled the chord just after we got off
the bridge in New Jersey. After the bus slid to a stop, the
driver escorted Frank off the bus. I slipped out after them and
pretended to head for my destination.

"Hey, buddy!"

I turned to find the driver glaring
at me. "How about helping this man get to his apartment?"

"Don't worry, driver," said Frank,
chuckling. "He was about to do just that."

The driver gave us both a puzzled
look then shook his head and moved on.

"You knew all along," I said,
relieved.

"It's your cologne."

"You've got a sensitive
honker."

He stomped a foot into the snow,
testing the depth. "I suppose you'll have to spend the night,
huh?"

"I'll leave after I get you home
and doctored up," I assured him.

"Oh, I think I might have room for
you. It's the least I can do." He held out his elbow. "I've been
feeling guilty for the last half-hour for brushing you
off."

The hardening snow crunched
underneath our feet as I led him down the sidewalk. I became
increasingly aroused and breathless over my good fortune.

His apartment was a small,
second-story walk-up. The living room consisted of a
bedspread-clad couch, two mismatched upholstered chairs, a maple
coffee table, and a large, German-built stereo
radio/phonograph/television set. There were Metropolitan Opera
and New York Philharmonic posters adorning the walls but very
little else to decorate them. The carpeting was a faded gold and
badly worn. The small kitchen was separated from the living room
by a bar with two stools. It had fairly new appliances and
fixtures and was well-stocked with hanging utensils, spices and
cookbooks, which I assumed were in braille.

Frank closed and locked the door.
"Have a seat and I'll make you a drink."

"That sounds great," I said, my
teeth clattering from the chill of my still-wet overcoat and the
anticipation of having him. "Do you have a robe I could
wear?"

He seemed to hesitate, then hung
his cane on a hook near the door. "Uhh . . . I don't think so. I
usually go nude around the house." He gestured toward the
radiator under a window overlooking the street below. "It's
usually so damned hot in this place . . . . Why?"

"I got soaked when I went diving
for your books."

He reached for me and felt my coat.
"Holy shit! You're gonna catch pneumonia!" He unbuttoned the
coat. "Get out of this and take a hot shower. Hang the wet stuff
on the bathroom door." With a concerned expression, he reached
for the back of a bar stool to get his direction set. "I'll get
you a fresh towel, then I'll make that drink. What's your
poison?" He confidently walked into the hallway.

"Scotch . . . or whatever you're
having." I followed him into the small bedroom, which consisted
of an unmade double bed, a small dresser and a chest of drawers.
The room was otherwise neat and clean; I was amazed that a blind
man could keep an apartment in such good shape.

He took off his coat and hung it
inside a closet, pulling out the bag of medication. "I don't
drink, but I have a little Scotch. My girl friend, Ella . . . she
drinks Scotch."

I frowned. "Ella?"

"She lives in Passaic, southwest of
here. She's serious, but I'm not." He pulled a towel out of a
chest of drawers and placed it on top of the sink in the tidy
bathroom. He reached inside the bag and pulled out a box
containing a bottle of insulin. "I gotta put this in the
refrigerator. No, Ella would really like for me to walk down the
aisle, but I just don't want to get that involved." He turned and
smiled. "Damned good sex, though. She comes over about every
other weekend and cleans the place . . . and my pipes. She went
to Vermont to see her folks this Christmas, otherwise, she'd be
here."

I took off my wet clothes and
watched him walk into the kitchen. "You meet her after you lost
your sight?"

"Yeah," he yelled back.

"Then you don't even know what she
looks like," I ventured in a raised voice, hanging up my clothes
on the door.

"Sure I do! I'll show you later how
I see a face!"

I shrugged and jumped into the
shower. The hot water was invigorating and led to an
erection.

After drying off, I draped the
towel around my shoulders and walked into the living room. The
television was on and the news anchor was telling about a brazen,
bloody Viet Cong ambush near Tan An. My cock was still erect and
aching; I got a perverse thrill over "exposing" myself to a blind
man.

Frank was in the kitchen, preparing
dinner. He was listening to the news, a grim expression on his
face. "Jesus, they're kicking our ass. Sometimes I think that
Nixon doesn't want to win this war." He turned to me. "Feel
better?"

"A hundred percent better." I sat
at the bar and watched him, elated that he was now bare-chested
and dressed in running shorts.

Without the hat, I could see that
his hair was nearly all grey and cut short. He was portly yet
muscular with grey chest hair and thick, hairy arms.

"You going to feed me?" I asked,
leaning over to inspect his crotch bulge, which was ample. What
are you going to feed me, Frank? I bit my tongue to keep from
laughing.

"Hope you're hungry." He smiled and
my stomach felt like I had fallen off a cliff.

"If you only knew how
hungry."

His brow furrowed slightly, then he
shrugged. "You like Beef Stroganoff?"

"Sounds great," I said, spotting my
drink and picking it up. "I hate to drink in front of
you."

He shrugged again. "Doesn't bother
me. I was a heavy drinker before I lost my sight to diabetes.
After I was diagnosed, I ignored what the doctor said and kept on
drinking." He sighed. "So I finally paid the price and wised
up."

"That's too bad," I mumbled.

"I lost my wife and two kids to the
alcohol, though." His eyes misted over. "I guess that was the
biggest loss."

"Jesus," I reacted. "Do they know
you're blind?"

"I lost track of them over ten
years ago. Last I heard, she'd moved to California to live with
her mother. She got the house, car, custody and everything." He
sighed deeply and busied himself with chopping onions and
browning the meat.

I inspected his injured eyebrow.
"I'll take care of your eye and knee when you reach a stopping
point."

"After we eat." He smiled again,
probably pushing painful memories back into the recesses of his
mind. "I'll take a shower and then you can operate."

Blood surged into my cock and a
lump formed in my throat. "You got it." I turned and noticed that
the drapes were open. "Oh, shit!" I quickly crouched and crawled
to the drapes to close them.

He chuckled. "What's the matter?
The drapes? What, are you nude?"

"Yeah. Hope your neighbors didn't
see me."

"Fuck 'em," he assured. "I forget
they're open sometimes. When I first moved here, there was
practically nothing across the street, and you could see the
whole bridge." He seemed to dwell on memories of better times.
"You can only see half of it now, but it's still impressive,
isn't it?"

I peeked out through the drapes and
shuddered at the ghostly apparition enshrouded in heavily falling
snow.

"Describe it to me," he
urged.

"Looks eerie now, like a huge
insect crawling through fog," I offered.

"I think I miss that the most. All
the many moods of old George Washington." His expression turned
melancholy. "It appeared different every time I looked out the
window."

I returned to the bar stool and
watched him finish browning and setting aside the ground beef,
replacing it in the skillet with the onions.

Deftly, he threw a handful of
noodles into a pot of boiling water. "What are your views on the
war?"

The question caught me off guard,
and I hesitated answering, having assumed that he was probably a
hawk. "I tune it out, mostly."

I was slightly irritated. "I didn't
duck it. I spent four years in the navy before I went to
college," I said with an air of indignation.

He appeared satisfied, then smiled.
"Navy man, huh? What'd you do?"

"Electrician. It was a very dull
four years, most of it spent in San Francisco, Manila and
Norfolk."

"Why did you follow me home?" he
asked at length, again catching me off guard.

I sipped my drink, studying him,
wondering why he was playing games. "It's not obvious?"

"Oh, it's obvious all right." He
rolled up those baby blues and my heart thumped.

"Is it?" I toyed, joining the
game.

"It's obvious that it's either pity
or compassion. A little of both, maybe."

I was confused. "Pardon?"

"What do you get out of it, a pass
to heaven, good karma? Hell, I don't even know your name. What's
your name?"

"Larry. Larry Trager . . . . Get
out of it?" I suddenly realized that I had terribly misjudged
him. "I guess I have no idea what you're talking about."

Frank mixed the meat, onions and
sour cream. "You know, sometimes traumatic changes in a man's
life can really change the way he thinks. My whole concept of
life changedit had to. I never thought of things like kindness or
concern for my fellow man. Now, I'm very conscious of things like
that. Except for you, no one has ever gone out of their way like
you have." He chuckled, almost tearfully. "I'm really moved by
your compassion, man, but I just can't tolerate pity. Is that
what you felt when you saw me fall off the curb?"

I was flabbergasted and felt my
cock shrivel.

"Some people are hooked on pity,"
he pointed out.

My vocal chords seemed
frozen.

"Hello?"

"Uhh . . ."

"Larry?" He appeared concerned and
walked around to the bar stool, feeling my face with his hands.
"You okay?"

His touch was magical; his
chemistry was capable of driving me into a frenzy. Part of me
wanted to be totally honest, but the other part wanted to hold
back and see if I could seduce him. "I, uhh . . ."

"This is how I see." His hands
gently and innocently discovered my face, shoulders and chest.
"Hey, look at this good looking sonofabitch, will you? Big
motherfucker, too! You play ball?"

"Yeah," I choked, blushing,
breathless.

"What position?"

"Linebacker," I mumbled, struggling
not to kiss him. I closed my eyes and begged myself not to fuck
up. It was imperative that I make a lasting impression. With that
in mind, I decided to be honest. "You're way off base."

He blinked and slowly lowered his
arms.

"I don't pity you . . . and I'm not
a saint."

"Then . . . why?"

"I've never ever been so turned on
by a man in my life," I said, my voice dry and almost cracking
with dread.

He considered this, finally making
his way back to the stove. "Jesus, I must be slipping. But you
just don't sound gay. Fuck, I never thought"

"I'm sorry," I said sincerely. "I
didn't mean to lead you on. Had you been able to really see me,
there'd've been no question in your mind."

The stunned look on his face made
me wish that I'd held back.

"What would I've seen?"

"Cow eyes, from the moment I first
laid them on you."

Suddenly, he burst out laughing.
"Cow eyes?"

"What's so funny?" His laugh was
incongruous; I felt frustrated and irritated.

"Here I am, pushing sixty,
overweight and blind . . . and you've got the hots for me?" He
continued laughing heartily.

"Maybe I'd better leave," I
suggested coolly.

"God, don't leave! It's just
getting good!" He reached for the bottle of Scotch, groping for
my glass, pouring another splash. "Don't get pissed, okay? Hell,
let me catch my breath, will you?" He poured the food into a
casserole dish and placed it inside the oven, turning the dial
down low.

"It's not just sex," I pointed
out.

He poured himself a glass of milk
and placed it on the bar. "Ah, a combination of eros and pathos,
right?" He felt his way around the corner and sat next to me.
"Don't mind me. Go on."

I felt encouraged by his mildly
bizarre reaction. "I don't know what happened to me. It's never
happened before. I never . . . followed anyone like that
before."

He smiled and seemed eager to hear
more.

"When I first touched your arm, it
was like a bolt of lightning hit me."

He guffawed. "You kidding? I was a
marine captain with twenty inch arms and a fat dick. I got
propositioned like you wouldn't believe."

Instantly, my cock got hard again.
"Anyone succeed?"

"That's a loaded question," he
said, his eyes sparkling mischievously, his grin answering the
question. "But you didn't come here just to give me a blow job,
did you?"

"No," I said simply, honestly. Of
course, I wanted to be invited back. Frank wasn't the type of man
you just serviced and walked away from. This was the kind of man
you never forget. The taste of him would haunt you, make you
addicted. Somehow I knew that.

He took a sip from his glass and
seemed to hesitate. "When I was in the marines, I had this sexual
problem with the effects of alcohol. Some people get violent.
Others, sleepy, whatever. Me, I'd suddenly had the morals of an
alley cat. To answer your question, yeah, I got my dick sucked by
a few guys, but I never looked for it. And, though I was never a
religious person, I felt bad about it. It just didn't seem right.
I guess it's some macho thing."

I felt compelled to change the
subject. "What's it like to be blind?"

He shook his head in
amazement.

"Dumb question," I groaned.

"On the contrary." He leaned back
against the bar, absently exposing his bulge, inflaming me. "It's
like being tied up and blindfolded at first. Tied up because of
this fear you have of falling and hurting yourself. You're frozen
with fear. And just when you can make it around your apartment,
you know you have to tackle the street." He seemed to shudder.
"The roughest day of my life was when I went to the Lighthouse
for the first time by myself. I sat for two days here, picturing
where the bus stop was, what the bus terminal looked like inside.
It had been over two years since I'd taken public transportation
in New York." He smiled proudly. "Then I went out early one
morning and just did it. And I did it again the next morning and
the next." He chuckled. "Man, was I bruised and battered after
the first week." He abruptly turned to me. "It hasn't been that
long, you know. A little over a year, really."

"I got my first dog about a month
ago, but it got sick and they took it back."

"I overheard that in the drug
store."

"Oh, yeah." He patted my shoulder.
"Yeah, you were there, weren't you? So you know that I'm getting
a new dog next week."

I looked into the kitchen and saw a
dog dish in the corner. "What were you like before you went
blind?"

"You wouldn't have liked me. A lot
of people didn't."

I couldn't picture it.

"I was a jock, too, back in high
school and in the marines. Always playing ball with the guys. I
worked hard, made pretty good money in insurance, burned the
candle at both ends. I was a Don Juan, arrogant as hell. I think
I fucked every secretary in my company. Before that, I was a
marine in the Pacific. I was at Iwo Jima, wounded twice over the
course of the war. Boxed, too. I was a welterweight. Came close
to taking national until this fucking gorilla from Detroit broke
my jaw."

We both laughed.

"After the war, I came back and got
my degree at Princeton. Where did you go to school?"

"Abilene Christian College in
Abilene, Texas. I got a B.S. in electrical engineering"

He hesitated. "So when did you turn
gay?"

Memories came rushing back into my
head. It never occurred to me to sift through those first
memories of my homosexual life. "This fellow jock and Ihe was
fifteen and I was sixteenwe were driving around one summer night.
We were on this double date and both girls were on the rag. We
got so frustrated that we drove out into the country and had at
it. I'd played around before, but this was the first time I went
all the way."

Frank seemed to squirm slightly.
"How old are you, Larry?"

"Twenty-five," I answered,
wondering if our age difference would turn him off.

"Good Lord, I'm thirty years older
than you!"

I created another diversion. "So
how long were you married?"

A sadness crept over his face.
"About fifteen years. I got married at thirty. We had two kids .
. . two boys."

"No, that's okay." He groaned and
sighed. "I was drinking pretty heavily then. One day I came
homewe lived in Nyack up the riverand she'd moved out, filed for
divorce. Of course, I was fucking everyone and she found
out."

I didn't know what to say to
comfort him.

"I have to give myself a shot and
eat something." He got off the stool and walked back to the
kitchen.

"Wait a minute," I said, suddenly
wondering how a blind man could extract insulin from a bottle.
"How . . . ?"

He grinned smugly and opened the
refrigerator. "Everyone asks me that."

I looked inside and saw two
drinking glasses filled with capped syringes.

"Ella fills them for me and puts
them in the refrigerator. The textured glass has the morning
shots and the slick glass has the night shots."

I suddenly felt an intense jealousy
of Ella.

He took out a syringe from the
slick glass and placed it on the counter. "Then I get the only
alcohol they'll let me have." He reached into a cabinet above and
pulled down a bottle of rubbing alcohol and a bag of cotton
balls.

I watched as he moistened a ball
and took the cap off the syringe. He pinched a layer of fat on
his abdomen and wiped it with the ball, finally injecting the
spot.

It was easy to fantasize learning
to give him shots, to take care of him. It was a dangerous
fantasy, but one that I couldn't resist. He was acutely
lovable.

We ate the Stroganoff and a salad
at the bar, then he went into the bathroom to shower. I poured
myself a brandy and sat on the couch, wishing that I had enough
guts to sneak into the back and watch him shower. Certain that he
would sense my presence, I decided to exercise decorum and hoped
that it paid off.

I parted the drapes, looked out at
the street and beyond. The bridge was sparkling white, caked
heavily with snow. No moving cars were in sight. The snow on the
street below was now quite deep and I realizedhoped? that Frank
and I would be snowed in for the whole holiday. I wanted it to be
a pleasant experience for him. I had no intention of pawing him
and turning him off. I wanted to turn him on, to be invited back.
Hell, I wanted to be his lover already!

As I sat watching a Christmas show
on television and sipping the brandy, he walked into the living
room. He was nude and exhibited a flaccid, fat stump of foreskin.
His body was stout, but the moderate layer of fat over his
muscular frame was uniform. He was built like the proverbial
"fireplug" and possessed an abundance of soft, brown body hair. I
looked for his war wounds and found a circular scar on his left
shoulder and a larger jagged one on his right side. I assumed
that the larger scar was from shrapnel. As he went into the
kitchen and made coffee, I shuddered at the intimacy and promise
of the moment.

"I smell brandy. You want coffee to
go with that?" He lowered his head so that I could see his face
underneath the kitchen cabinets. His smile was brilliant, his
hair frizzy. He looked cute.

"Please." And then I could smell
him, too. He'd splashed on something very exotic and masculine.
Did he want to encourage his seduction? I wondered.

He poured two mugs of coffee and
brought them to the coffee table, navigating by rote the space
between the nearest chair and the couch. "If you want cream or
sugar, you'll have to help yourself."

"Black's fine," I said, giddy that
he was sitting down next to me. I sucked in all the air around
him, hungry for his essence. My cock smarted from all the surges
of blood.

Frank toasted with his coffee.
"Merry Christmas."

I chuckled, amazed at how my
disastrous holiday weekend had turned into the most memorable
event of my young life. "Merry Christmas." I lifted my mug and
clicked it against his. "Here's hoping that the upcoming year
will . . . will bring you everything you ever wanted."

He nodded. "And the same to you,
young man."

I noticed the abrasion on his knee
and remembered my offer. "If you'll direct me to your hydrogen
peroxide, I'll take care of my nursing duties."

"That's okay," he said, waving his
hand.

"No, you might get it infected." I
jumped up and went into the bathroom. "Is it in the
bathroom?"

"Yeah. In the medicine cabinet.
There're some Q-tips there too."

I found both and brought them to
the coffee table, then went into the kitchen to fetch a
saucer.

"Hey, I just thought of something,"
he said, absently picking at his bruised knee. "I have some
wrapped gifts that I never opened. Ella brought them my last
birthday and we never got around to opening them." He chuckled
lecherously. "She fucked my brains out that night."

The pang of jealously was like a
knife penetrating my stomach. "That good, huh?" I commented
icily.

"Unbelievable."

I poured some peroxide into the
saucer and dipped a Q-tip into it, then gently cradled his face
with a shaking hand.

"You're hands are cold," he pointed
out.

"Warm heart," I countered, dabbing
at the cut over his eye. I looked into his eyes and felt an
ever-increasing fondness for him. His effect on me was awesome;
the mounting hunger I felt was agonizing. Being that near to him
and not being able to touch him was tortuous . . . deliciously
so. I felt that I could actually taste his skin as I fantasized
noisily sucking his nipples.

"Ouch!" he protested as the wound
fizzed.

"You baby," I chided, dipping
another swab and cleaning his knee wound.

"Ouch!" he repeated, exaggerating
the pain.

"Okay, you'll live," I assured
him.

"I'll get the packages," he said,
bending to get up.

I pushed him back, watching my hand
become enveloped in soft, salt and pepper chest hair. "No, let it
dry first." I noticed what seemed like a slight swelling in his
cock and decided to be a little bolder. "I'm curious. What was
your reaction to those experiences with other men?"

Frank smiled. "Are you about to try
to seduce me now?"

"No," I said defensively. "I'm
afraid that if I seduce you, I'll end up leaving with just that.
I want more."

"How do you know that?"

"That I want more?" I was confused
again.

"No." He chuckled. "That's obvious.
How do you know you'd leave with just that?"

"It depends on your reaction,
doesn't it? Do you know what your reaction would be?"

"No," he said flatly. "I've never
had sober sex with a man."

"My wild and impetuous self wants
to drain you dry, damn the consequences. Then another part of me
wants to leave here with your respect, whatever it takes." I
tried to gauge his impressions. "It's very important that I be
invited back."

Frank shrugged. "I never considered
what my reaction might be. When it happened back in the marines,
I felt unclean the next day . . . like I was infected."

"You were afraid you'd turn
gay?"

He considered that. "Yeah, sort
of." He crossed his legs atop the coffee table and crossed his
arms behind his head. "Of course, that was then. Now I know that
sexuality isn't as simple as it seemed then. Then, you were
either queer or straightnothing in between. Sure, there were
people who called themselves bisexual, but they were queer to
me." He scratched his knee, but I tapped his hand away. "Ella
brought her flower child niece here one night and she said
something that really stopped me in my tracks. It was something
like, 'Too many people look at sex as either black or white, when
in fact it's like the entire color spectrum.' It's like, if a
straight man is red and a gay man is blue, then who is yellow?
Green? Purple?"

I was astounded at this burst of
wisdom. "Now that's eloquent."

"What I'm saying is that I have no
idea where I fit in the spectrum." He seemed to squirm again and
placed his feet on the floor, taking a sip of his coffee. "But
then, I'm really not that interested in finding out. The question
isn't pressing, you know? If you suddenly went down on me, maybe
I'd be so unglued that I'd tell you to stop and then kick you
out. But then, maybe I'd like it and fuck your brains out, who
knows. I just can't visualize it in my head."

I digested what he said, finally
mumbling, "It's like Russian roulette."

"Hey, let's open some presents and
have a real Christmas, okay?" He jumped up and made his way to a
hall closet. He opened the door and knelt, rummaging through
several items on the floor.

The telephone rang and I got up to
answer it for him. "Want me to get that?"

"Oh, shit no!" He sprang up and
rushed to the kitchen. "It's Ella." He answered the wall phone.
"Hello?"

I returned to the couch.

"Well, Merry Christmas to you,
sweetheart."

Enraged with jealousy, I quietly
walked back toward the kitchen. As his conversation with her
became more quiet and intimate, I got closer, inviting the pain.
He absently played with his cock until it had become semi-erect.
I quietly knelt, three feet away.

His cock, almost as thick as my
wrist, became hard and dark red. My mouth filled with
saliva.

"I can't wait either, babe. Oh,
shit, I'm as hard as a rock."

Hating her, I lost all control and
locked my arms around his thighs, immediately swallowing his
cock. His free hand pushed at me, trying to dislodge me, but
quickly retracted as I lightly bit down on his cock head.

"Huh? Nothing. I just lost my
balance a little."

I released my hold on his legs and
made love to his cock like I'd never done with any other man. It
was like drinking from a diamond and emerald-encrusted
chalice.

"Sure, I'm breathing heavily. You
do that to me, sweetheart."

Massaging his balls, I rejoiced as
his legs spread further apart, welcoming more.

"Jacking off? Why do you think
that?"

I sucked both testicles into my
mouth, then turned on the floor until my nose was in the crack of
his ass.

"Oh, shit," he mumbled. "Uhh . . .
Oh, I dropped some food on the floor."

Having never had the desire with
anyone else, I ventured into exotic territory, sending my tongue
to search for his sphincter, finally finding it shower-clean and
willing to be probed.

"A piece of bread, I think." The
timbre of his voice had altered. He sounded somewhat
hoarse.

My tongue fluttered over his
sphincter, glided down around his scrotum, slavered up his shank
and finally swirled around his broad head. My throat completely
dilated, I swooped down to his pubic hair, causing his feet to
dance upon the tile floor. Sliding back down to his balls, I took
both inside my mouth and looked up at his face. I focused upon
his face, then his cock, then his face as I slipped my thumb into
his anus. Suddenly his face turned bright red and he grunted. A
streamer of semen shot out of his cock and into my hair. Another
spurt came, but I captured it with my mouth. In the throes of
ecstasy, I drank his essence and spilled my seed onto the floor
at his feet.

"Nothing, babe. Just cleared my
throat."

I sat back and marvelled at the
sight of his spread legs and quickly shrinking cock. A pearl of
semen slipped out of his slit and soon became a two inch rivulet,
which I captured with my tongue just as it began to fall.

And then I looked up at his
disturbed expression and realized that I would indeed leave with
only a memory and the aftertaste of his cum in my sinuses. I got
up and quietly walked into the bathroom, quickly getting into my
semi-dry clothes. As I returned to the living room, he was
sitting on the adjacent carpeting, yawning as Ella talked.

Acutely depressed, I let myself out
and slowly walked down to the apartment entrance. The snow was
even deeper than I had thought; I couldn't distinguish the
sidewalk from the street. Knowing it was insane, but unwilling to
face Frank's adverse reaction, I struggled down the sidewalk
through foot-deep snow. Not ten feet away, my socks were already
soaked and my feet seemed like they were freezing.

A window opened above and Frank
stuck his head out. "Where in the holy hell do you think you're
going?"

I looked around and held out my
arms in desperation. "Beats the shit out of me."

"Then how about coming back and
opening your goddamn present." He closed the window.

Feeling childish and stupid, I
meekly returned to the apartment. He was sitting on the
couch.